Hallowed Be Thy Name
by awellspokenbeast
Summary: On the day of his execution, one former Death Eater finds that his past is inescapable.


Hallowed be thy Name

Fenrir Greyback sat alone on his cot in a cold cell in the ground level of Azkaban, leaning forward on his thighs and staring a hole into a stone on the floor. It really couldn't have ended any other way, he supposed. Voldemort wasn't one for keeping his word, especially to those who were "lesser" than he… which meant everyone. A world where werewolves could not merely survive but thrive was an idealistic dream… and getting there had its perks as well. Fenrir Greyback was not a philosopher fighting for a far-off concept of a fair and just society; he was a monster and damn determined to play the part.

The bells in the guard tower rang heavily, echoing loudly through his window. One week ago, he had been brought up from the deep dungeon to officially await his execution and now it seemed that the sands of time were finally running low.

One

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A heavy metal door opened at the end of his block and he heard several sets of footsteps making their way towards him. Fenrir took one final look through the bars at the grey sky over the North Sea, realizing that these were the last sights he would ever see of a world gone wrong. The footsteps grew louder and the scents more distinct and he was not surprised to see Harry Potter in his peripheral vision, flanked by Kingsley Shacklebolt and another young brown-haired auror who smelled familiar but he wasn't sure why. Behind them stood the Warden of Azkaban and an Anglican vicar – it was so very kind of them to be concerned for his soul.

Despite his bluster and bravado, he felt a tugging sensation in his chest and became extremely aware of his surroundings. This wasn't right – it couldn't be. There must be some sort of mistake. Was this… fear? The realization hit him hard with physical force as his fear multiplied upon itself to become unabated terror. This was it. This was the end despite his desperate wish that he wake up from some crazy dream.

"Prisoner FG-02598," began the Warden in a loud officious tone before Potter cut him off.

"It's time to go, Greyback," he said calmly, his voice level and patient… maybe even understanding. It was worse than a crazy dream, he knew. Not even in his dreams was Potter… like this. At his trial, Potter and his ilk had been largely silent. It wasn't as though they had needed to speak out against him – the evidence did that well enough on its own. He did have to thank the mudblood, though, for "proving" that werewolves deserved "humane" treatment, which meant that rather than immediate destruction of any known werewolf, he and a few others from his clan were sent to Azkaban. He was the only one sentenced to death.

He continued to stare at the single stone in the floor, his shallow breath leaving his head light. This must be a dream. _'Somebody please tell me that I'm dreaming'_. The thought flashed across his mind, but he knew it could not be true. This was his reality.

He wanted to scream at Potter, standing like a statue on the other side of the bars to his holding cell. He wanted to try to talk his way out of this. He wanted to try anything he could to stall the unavoidable march to the courtyard, but the words would not come, escaping him when he tried to speak.

It was only then that he noticed the tears. He had not known that he was crying, nor did he really understand why he would. He was not afraid of death – that had always been a realistic possibility in the good old days – but now as he looked away from the single stone, the tops of his shoes were wet and he could feel tracks on his cheeks from where the tears had fallen. He wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve and took a deep breath to calm himself. After a beat, he lifted himself up off his cot and rose to his full height, rivaling Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Ready when you are, Potter." His voice was weak and the words came out as a whisper, but as he brought his hands in front of him and felt the magic bind them together, he looked up from the floor and finally saw Potter's face, full of something he couldn't quite… was it pity? Why couldn't Potter just fucking hate him like the rest of the Wizarding world?

He looked around at the others assembled. The Warden looked proud and arrogant, as though he himself had defeated the notorious Fenrir Greyback. The vicar looked terrified – if he wanted, he could have made the old man shit himself. Shacklebolt looked as solemn as Potter and the young brown-haired Auror looked as though he were trying to imitate his boss rather than lash out at him. 'Probably killed his parents or some…' No. It couldn't be… that smell…

"You're Lupin's cub, aren't you," he said, looking the younger man directly in the eyes, his face devoid of emotion. He closed his eyes and shook his head not waiting for confirmation of what he already knew. This seemed fitting.

The vicar began to drone on about the last days and about God's eternal forgiveness, but as Potter led him out, he could hear the warden speaking to Shacklebolt, clearly trying to take advantage of the occasion to improve his modest position. For his part, Shacklebolt was not responding and Greyback thought he could smell the adrenaline in the air, as though the Minister were doing everything in his power to not yell at the man for being a tactless sycophantic pedant. There were men dying today, after all.

The guards at the end of the block opened the heavy metal doors again and light flooded the dank hallway. The sun was dying over Scotland in the Western Sky and Fenrir thought that all in all, it was a very good time for death. As he stepped into the fading sunlight, the crisp ocean air invaded his nostrils and he felt alive again. The air was fresh and salty and constantly moving, unlike the stale and stagnant air in the deep dungeon (the holding cell wasn't much better) and the light was not inhibited by an angular gash in a wall that claimed to be a window.

As the guards led him into the courtyard, a voice called from a cell in the tower, "God be with you!" Greyback sneered and chuckled a bit. God. Even as the vicar droned on and other prisoners were praying for him, he just couldn't believe that there was a God out there. And if there was, why was he still walking towards the gallows. Where was his infinite mercy and eternal love?

He continued his walk and became increasingly defiant with each step he took. He had turned two hundred and thirty-seven people in his life and killed another forty-one. He had raped… well he lost count in all the fun. It had taken two hardened and blood-thirsty wizards to bring down an utterly broken Fenrir Greyback, and Weasley and Longbottom were celebrated as war heroes for capturing him. Had he not been so grievously injured, he would have ripped them to shreds, or maybe just given them something to remember him by, the way he had that other Weasley. The sneer on his face grew larger. He wasn't sorry – not at all. He had had far too much fun to be sorry for any of it.

The gallows loomed larger as he walked in silence across the massive courtyard towards them and as he was marched up the steps and placed in the noose, he still tuned out the droning vicar and the clamoring warden. He looked out over them all and Shacklebolt silenced the vicar with a wave of his hand.

"Fenrir Greyback," Shacklebolt began, his voice deep and commanding, "for crimes committed against wizarding kind you have been sentence to hang from the neck until dead. Do you have any last words?"

Greyback sneered again. Looking down into the eyes of the Minister, he leaned forward slightly and said with as much menace as he could muster, "No. Do you?" For his part, Shacklebolt was unimpressed. Even if he were somehow able to break free of the bindings, Greyback was confident that the Minister could still hold his own in a fight.

Potter looked over to the Lupin cub and nodded. The pup took a piece of parchment out of his pocket and looked up at Greyback. "Aunt Hermione found this written in stone in a complex in the West Midlands," he said loudly over the rising wind before putting his gaze to the parchment and beginning to read. "Know that you are a king and with that power comes the responsibility to use it well, but remember first that you are a child of nature."

Fenrir's eyes grew wide. _It couldn't be…_

"As any other child who is stronger than the others around him, you will be tempted to abuse the power you have been given, but remember also that they are also children of nature and are your brethren."

He began to blink rapidly, looking back and forth between the faces gathered in front of him. _No… it hadn't… it couldn't._

"Remember next that wicked pain that is yours to bear and yours alone. Take measure to ensure that you do not afflict others in the throes of your moon-rage."

_It had been so long since..._

"Finally, ensure that these laws are passed to your children for it is just, necessary, and proper." Lupin looked back up at him and said the two words that Fenrir Greyback had dreaded the most, the two words that damned his soul, the only two words that could force him to see the truth of his actions.

"_Leges Garou_. The laws of the Werewolf." _Leges Garou._ The words his mother taught him as a young cub. Words he had mocked and forgotten in the years since he joined Voldemort. Words as ancient as they were true. A sweat broke out across his forehead. What had he done? What had he done and for what? What purpose did his reign of terror serve? He did not empower Werewolves; he merely spent thirty years setting back any chance they would have in a wizard's world. He had been a fool. It was only right that it come to this. It was undoubtedly just, necessary, and proper.

Suddenly, the noose was not tight enough and he thrashed against the rope dropping his body as far as it would fall until the pressure and pain he knew he deserved rubbed harshly against his neck. Tears filled his eyes and he gasped pitifully, trying desperately to expel the air from his lungs and not draw any back in. He had wronged nature itself. His crimes were not judged by wizards, but by the very earth. His damnation was sealed and no defiance was left in him.

"GREYBACK!" The voice of Harry Potter finally broke into his consciousness and the man stood there, immediately in front of the gallows, counterpoising the warden's growing distance from his impotent thrashing. Greyback calmed himself and rose back to his feet, accepting with gravitas the judgment of nature. He shook his head clear and looked back down at Potter, positioning himself over the trapdoor and nodding his head.

Potter sighed and stepped back, turning to nod at Shacklebolt who, in turn, nodded to the executioner at the trap-door lever. The ground fell away beneath him and he thrashed around, not attempting to escape but to hasten his just demise.

Only the vicar spoke, "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…"

* * *

When Harry and Teddy arrived back at Grimmauld Place, neither spoke for some time, instead choosing to simply join their wives and Teddy's infant children in the kitchen and have a cuppa. Neither of his boys seemed to have inherited his changing abilities, but they had inherited quite a temper. He couldn't be sure though whether they had inherited his or their mother's.

Even though he was not a werewolf, certain things about Ted Lupin did indicate that he was the child of one, including the temper – it was a very good thing that Victoire had one to match. Even her father, someone for whom he had an incredible amount of respect, not only as her father but also as someone who "understood", had told him once that her mother's temper was greater than his own "augmented" Weasley temper any day of the month. Growing up around Weasleys, he knew that it must be quite impressive when Fleur gets upset.

No one spoke while he took his son Remus from Ginny's outstretched hands. No one spoke while he looked at the boy's twin being cradled by his wife. He felt so stereotypical naming his twin sons Romulus and Remus, but he knew that there would be a Remus anyway, so why not just go ahead and do the thing? He sat next to his wife and she put her head on his shoulder, allowing him to rest his own on top.

Harry sat next to his wife, putting his arm around her and placing a kiss on her lips before the two of them mimicked Ted and Victoire, Ginny resting her head on Harry's shoulder and Harry resting his own head on hers(although, Ted had to admit, he probably did pick up the gesture from seeing the two of them for so long). The four sat in peaceful silence, but after some time, perhaps seconds, perhaps hours, Ted lifted his head from his wife's and said quietly, "we should get back home, then." Harry nodded to him and stood up from the table, walking around it to give him a gentle hug and to kiss Victoire's cheek. Ginny hugged him and gave Victoire a kiss as well before kissing each sleeping boy's forehead.

He walked back into the living room and took a pinch of Floo Powder, casting it into the fireplace saying firmly but quietly, "Wolfsheim".

He said good-bye one last time before stepping into the fireplace and coming out into his own sitting room, stepping quickly into the space to allow Victoire to follow without incident. When she herself appeared, she smiled sadly at him, understanding what the day had meant.

"Why don't you put the boys in their basinets," she said quietly, gently handing Romulus over to her husband, "and I'll make us some dinner." He nodded and walked down the hall to the nursery, pushing the door open with his hip and stepping in. Delicately, he placed his boys in their respective basinets and covered them up with their blankets before he knelt down, placing a kiss on each.

As he stood back up, a feeling overcame him, overtook him, overwhelmed him. Choking on air for a moment, he cleared his throat and said very softly to his two sleeping sons, "Remember first that you are a child of nature." He blinked back a tear and walked back into the kitchen's small nook to rejoin his wife. As he walked in, he saw her clutching her grandmother's rosary and he stayed in the doorframe, allowing her a moment to comfort herself the way the older woman had taught her.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name."

* * *

_A.N.: _This one-shot story was inspired directly by "Hallowed be thy name" by Iron Maiden. I have not and will not profit from its use. Please read and review this story. Please.


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